


Write a Different Chapter for Us

by AutumnWoodsDreamer



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Marriage, Mild Angst, Natasha Romanov Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnWoodsDreamer/pseuds/AutumnWoodsDreamer
Summary: While on a much needed vacation on the Barton’s Farm, Natasha shares some life-altering news with Tony...
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Tony Stark, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Tony Stark, Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark, Nick Fury & Natasha Romanov
Comments: 39
Kudos: 128





	1. Fields & Fences

Natasha, weary from a week of anxiety that had yet to settle, lay back in the passenger seat and let her mind wander through the fields and weatherbeaten fences slipping by out the window.

Though lost in contemplation, at irregular intervals, she shifted her gaze from the passing scenery to glance over to Tony. One hand steadied the wheel while he propped his other arm against the door, resting his head in his bandaged hand. Seated to her left, he couldn’t obscure the side of his face discoloured with a vivid splash of indigo rimmed with yellow.

It hadn’t been a terribly long or strenuous drive; quite to the contrary, it was the most peaceful trip one could take. But concern niggled at her whenever she caught a glimpse of a pained grimace flitting across his expression or noticed him shift in his seat.

A set of familiar wooden gates bordering a tree-lined driveway interrupted the landscape of fields and fences, signalling that their two-hour long journey had reached its end.

With a soft sigh, Tony straightened in his seat and returned the bandaged hand to the wheel. Working down the gears with the smooth skill of a racecar driver, he slowed dramatically, pulled off the road and through the gates left open in anticipation of their arrival.

Fading sunlight trickled through the leaves overhead, playing with the cloud of pale dust billowing in their wake as they drove down. The cloud lazily swirled around the rust-red station wagon as it came to a stop outside a quaint, double-storey farmhouse dressed in flaking white paint and framed in gold, courtesy of the setting sun.

Keys jangled as he turned the engine off, a cricket choir all too readily filling the absence of the rhythmic hum. “We’re here,” he stated, redundantly, voice dim and hoarse from fatigue and disuse but still too loud for the sudden quiet blanketing the car. He scraped a hand down his face in an attempt to wake himself up, wincing when he thoughtlessly aggravated the still sensitive bruises.

Natasha set her seat upright, rolled her window closed and unfastened her seatbelt but made no further move to leave the vehicle. Blinking a little faster, hand hovering over the door handle, she rushed to reach the decision she had procrastinated making for the entirety of a three-hour long flight and a two-hour long drive.

Her husband noticed the uncharacteristic hesitation and glanced to her, his brow furrowing. “Something on your mind?”

Something heavy lodged in her throat. She had maintained the silence to accomodate clear thinking, not to worry him. To chase away the unease, she swallowed, took a deep breath, and gave up mustering courage.

“I’m fine,” she said and opened her door.

They knew each other far too well for the reassuring smile she offered to have any chance of fooling him into believing the half-hearted sentiment, but he didn’t call her out right then. With an absent nod of the head, he abandoned the subject as quickly as he had addressed it.

She stepped out the car and a breath of warm summer air blew through her long curls. Loose gravel crunched under her boots as she made her way around to retrieve her rucksack and the duffel bag from the backseat.

Tony moved to get out his side, shifting his aching body carefully. Gripping the door for support, he hauled himself out the car and stood. Tentatively, he stretched, his expression scrunching in pain at the necessary procedure.

His wife watched on, waiting for him to finish stretching before she came up to give him a quick kiss. “You’re getting old, babe,” she teased; an ironic joke given the fact he’d only just stepped into his mid-thirties.

“If I am, you are,” he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck and grimacing.

She handed him the duffel bag and motioned to the house. “Age before beauty,” she sang with a lighthearted, mischievous smile to brighten the mood.

It worked: a corner of his lips quirked to mirror hers.

He reached past her to get his rucksack. Slinging it over his shoulder, carrying the duffel bag the other side, he stepped up to the creaky old porch and she followed. “Don’t get cocky,” he warned her, automatically lowering his voice as he opened the never locked screendoor. “You’re only five years younger than me.”

* * *

They entered the house as if they lived there, welcomed by the smell of clean cotton and fresh bread. The door announced their presence with an old wooden creak that echoed through the cozy house better than a bell could.

A chorus of gasps and exclamations rang out from the kitchen and excited footsteps came racing down the hall.

Without a glimmer of apprehension, Tony let his rucksack slip off his shoulder and fall with the duffel to the floor as he lowered himself down on one knee and spread both arms out, a genuine smile brightening his battered features, chasing the aches away like sunlight did clouds.

“Uncle Tony! Aunt Nat!” twin voices cried.

“Smaller agents!” Tony returned the greeting, bracing himself as two small bodies launched at him like a set of torpedoes. They didn’t knock him over but they did manage to knock the air out of him. “Oof! Good to see you munchkins, too,” he said, sounding suffocated but still wrapping them up in a tight embrace, a child on either side.

Kept innocently oblivious of the world beyond their little town, they knew of nothing relating to the bandages and stitches holding him together; neither would he want them to. Happily, he ignored the pain for their sake.

Lila extended and curled an arm around her aunt’s knees to draw her near. Natasha dropped her bag and bent to properly join the ardent embrace, all worries fading as she indulged in the familial love.

Pulling away, Tony held the children at arm’s length and looked them up and down, eyebrows dipped in exaggerated skepticism. “Did you guys shrink?”

“No,” Lila refuted, a giggly lilt in her young voice.

“Are you sure? I swear, you guys were, like—” he held his hand up high over their heads, as far as his arm could stretch from his knelt position, “—that tall last time.”

Cooper shook his head, emphatically, almost sending his glasses flying. “We were not!”

Tony’s expression crumpled into a faux pout. “Were too!”

“We’ve grown!” the boy countered, a smile suggesting he recognized the joke as such despite his indignant tone.

Tony shook his head. “Nah, I don’t believe you.”

“Well, you stand to be corrected,” their father chimed in as he came through from the kitchen. Amusement crinkled the edges of his sharp grey eyes. “Laura marked their heights on the pantry door yesterday; they have proof.”

Tony glanced up. “Hey, Clint.”

“Hey, man,” his sometimes-teammate returned the greeting. His jovial expression fell when he saw his friend’s bruised face, but he quickly masked the surprise and said nothing.

The brother and sister seized their uncle’s hands and tugged in unison. “Come see!”

“Okay, okay!” Tony clambered to his feet as a little human on either side attempted to drag him down the hall with their combined—and admittedly impressive—strength.

“Go easy on him!” their father called after them.

“It’s fine!” the inventor assured over his shoulder, a laugh in his voice. “I can handle myself!”

They disappeared into the kitchen, the children chattering on like morning birds.

Natasha stored up every moment in her memory. She adored the effect children had on her husband, miraculously bringing him back to life and reviving his joviality. What she wouldn’t give to have him permanently so...

Clint turned to her. “World still in one piece?” he asked, opening his arms.

“More or less,” she replied, comfortably slipping into a warm embrace with her dear mentor and oldest friend. “Crazy and complicated as ever.”

“Ah. Just the way I left it.” He pulled away and the lightheartedness faded as his brow crinkled in honest concern. “How’re you two holding up, though?” he inquired, lowering his voice. “Tony looks pretty beat up. What happened?”

Her expression fell away and she bent down to pick up the carelessly discarded luggage. “Last week, the Maggia hired Scarlotti to take him down,” she explained, simply, as if it were as typical an occurrence as grocery shopping—for them, it practically was.

Not waiting on an invitation, Clint helped with her task, retrieving the other rucksack and the duffel for her. “Whiplash?”

She nodded but didn’t meet his gaze. “Yeah. It wasn’t pretty.”

A grimace pinched his calloused features. He knew firsthand the mobster’s reputation for brutality—he was one of the few who lived to tell the tale. “How bad?” he asked in a sympathetic whisper.

With a shrug, she stepped past him to reach the stairs. “Bit of internal bleeding, cracked ribs, concussion,” she rattled off. “The usual,” she concluded, trying to sound nonchalant and unaffected.

Clint caught up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, asking her to stop and face him; she conceded willingly. “If you guys were dealing with that, you didn’t have to come,” he told her, genuinely concerned for his friends.

She shook her head and gently shirked off his hand but didn’t immediately turn and continue up the stairs. “Tony wouldn’t miss summer vacation with you guys for the world. Seriously, you should have seen him: he was ready to stage Mission Impossible to get out of the hospital. Thankfully, he wasn’t up to doing anything too stupid; he just spent the week pestering the doctors to discharge him early.”

While the worry didn’t ease, the archer still managed a light chuckle. “So this is actually a respite for the poor medical staff that had to deal with a Stark who couldn’t stand to stay in bed?”

“Pretty much...”

* * *

After confirming they had—according to the latest marks on the pantry door—grown at least two inches each, Lila and Cooper bounced from one topic to the next with little correlation between the subjects.

They explained their plans for the summer holidays, focussing their excitement on the coming two weeks of Tony and Natasha’s stay; shared some random gross facts about exotic bugs and bodily functions they learned from their classmates; and then caught their honorary uncle up on all relevant recent events: Lila had lost a tooth in a toffee (which she kept, much to her mother’s disgust); and Cooper had new glasses (which didn’t have night-vision, much to his dismay).

They talked fast, as if allotted only an hour with him and not a whole fortnight to come. He didn’t mind. Sitting on a barstool, strategically leaning on the kitchen counter, he listened to their stories and ideas with genuine interest.

Eventually, despite concerted effort, his eyelids began drooping and his body kept trying to curl in on itself.

Despite his superhuman capacity for denial, he could soldier through the repercussions of being attacked by Whiplash’s razor-sharp, electrified whips for only so long. Even so, he couldn’t find it in him to excuse himself...

Midway through a retelling of an incident involving frogs and drainpipes, Lila’s eyes widened as she realized something astronomical. “You haven’t met Nathanial yet!” she cried.

“No, I haven’t,” Tony admitted with a shake of his head. “I thought he might be sleeping.”

“He’s always sleeping,” Cooper muttered. Clearly, he had only recently learnt that babies weren’t instant playmates.

Lila slipped off her seat and tucked her small hand into Tony’s, not at all perturbed by the bandage. She led him down the hall and up the stairs and he followed as best he could, though he struggled to keep in step with her. She paused when they reached the landing and looked up at him. “You have to be quiet,” she told him in a whisper, her finger held to her lips.

“And don’t sneeze, even if he’s awake,” her brother added, coming up behind them. “It scares him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tony assured, matching their volume as they made their way to a spare room. Bruce usually stayed in this particular room when he visited but now it was furnished and designated as the new baby’s nursery.

Clint made the furniture himself, from scratch; the archer’s secret competence with carpentry never ceased to amaze his teammate who once believed the man didn’t even possess the ability to glue two popsicle sticks together. Tony, a craftsman himself (albeit a different branch), marvelled at the skill and finesse demonstrated in the sturdiness, functionality and aesthetically pleasing appearance of the cot, the bassinet, an upholstered rocking chair, and a changing table/wardrobe.

Some in the team had rallied and put to use their own various hidden talents to provide a few sentimental finishings that now decorated the room: Tony’s mobile of cartoonish robots made from scrap metal hung above the cot; Steve’s beautiful, almost realistic painting of a family of ducks on a peaceful lake hung on the wall above the changing table; and Peter’s delicately sewn quilt lay spread over the bassinet, the playful animal motifs paying tribute to their odd assortment of themed teammates.

Near the window, in the rocking chair, Laura idly rocked back and forth, looking exhausted but still managing a warm-hearted smile at the inventor and the children as they entered. Like a loyal sentinel, Clint stood beside her, a hand resting on her shoulder.

Natasha stood near the bassinet, swaying gently as if to a lullaby; the family’s one-eyed mutt, Lucky, sat at her feet, happy and calm but with a protective air about him.

Only when Tony approached did he see the swaddled baby sleeping soundly in his wife’s arms.

“So this is little Nate, huh?” he said, voice softening in that way everyone’s automatically does when a baby is present.

“Yeah. Little traitor,” she said, her voice so warm and fond.

She shifted to let him see their godson better, the motion mildly disturbing the infant. With a tiny whine, he stirred and his expression pinched. Then glazed eyes blinked open and searched but quickly slipped closed again as if disinterested. He easily settled and resumed snoozing.

Lila and Cooper predominantly took after their mother, but the last Barton child inherited their father’s features. In contrast to his siblings’ long-lashed hazel eyes and silky chestnut hair, Nathanial sported steel grey irises and a soft tuft of sandy-coloured hair. Even though he was only four weeks old, his face resembled Clint’s sharper, sturdier outline as opposed to Laura’s smoother, rounded shape.

“He’s incredible,” Tony breathed, genuinely awestruck by the wonder tenderly cradled in loving arms and snoring peacefully; up until that moment, he didn’t know babies could snore at all.

“He really is something, isn’t he?” Snuggling him close, Natasha kissed Nathanial’s little head; he seemed to smile at the gesture but Tony wasn’t sure how much awareness to credit the baby with. “Do you want to hold him?”

“Huh? Me?”

“C’mon; it’s not difficult.”

The offer sent a small flash of panic through him, but also a spark of excitement. He turned to the baby’s parents as if to ask permission. Clint’s lips curled and parted like he had a snarky joke waiting, but Laura silently dug her elbow into his ribs to halt the quip.

“Go ahead,” she encouraged Tony with a nod and a smile.

“Yeah, okay,” he finally answered, secretly eager.

He had held babies before, but usually briefly and in rescue situations where there was no time to consider technique. Every other time an infant was in his presence, he naturally shied away from holding them, sure that the finesse was beyond him and he would only end up hurting them.

Presently, he awkwardly fumbled with his arms and hands, struggling to determine the best way to fold them in preparation and receive the delicate being.

“It comes naturally,” his wife assured, reading his mind as ever. Before he could lose any courage, she smoothly transferred Nathanial from her hold to his.

All apprehension, uncertainty, and inadequacy evaporated the moment the tiny human bundled in a blue and white striped blanket lay cradled in his arms. Just as his wife had said, an undocumented instinct surfaced then and he settled comfortably into holding and even rocking the infant.

“Hey, kiddo,” he found himself effortlessly cooing in a voice too soft to be his.

Steel eyes drowsily blinked open again and locked onto the new face. He braced for the inevitable, customary cry he’d seen countless times in movies, but Nathanial seemed too intrigued and captivated by this new person to begin wailing for no good reason.

“I’m your crazy Uncle Tony,” he introduced himself, somehow feeling it was only appropriate to follow with the disclaimer: “Don’t worry, we’re not actually related.”

As he mindlessly babbled on, enjoying the warmth and the weight of a baby in his arms, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Natasha watching him with a satisfied smile and an unreadable sparkle in her eyes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m working on the next instalment of “Black & Red” and some requests but I’m hitting writer’s block at every turn and I really want to share something... so! Here’s a story I wrote about three years ago and never felt brave enough to post!


	2. Come Morning Light

The vague, uncomfortable notion of something amiss awoke Natasha in the pale beginnings of the next morning.

Propping herself up on her elbow, she cast her gaze over the right side of the bed only to find it empty; a quick touch of the cold, crumpled pillow told her Tony had abandoned sleep hours ago.

It didn’t worry her: he rarely ever stayed in bed the whole night through. It was just strange that she’d slept deep enough not to notice him sneaking out.

She settled back down, bundling herself up in the soft covers and staring up at the thin light streaming in and painting the ceiling. She told herself she’d get up in a minute and go find him. Maybe two minutes...

If they were home, in Malibu or Manhattan, she knew she would find him in the workshop or in the lab, tinkering mindlessly on old projects with rock music blaring in the background. But there was nowhere for him to escape to like that out here—not unless he was desperate, in which case the Bartons’ tractor would receive yet another unnecessary upgrade.

In lieu of mentally stimulating and distracting work, Tony would have sought out a quiet and relatively secluded spot to think. Not the kitchen, not the living room; he would want to take advantage of the fresh air and wide open spaces to clear his cluttered mind.

The front porch, she concluded.

Now would be a good time to tell him, she also concluded.

With a childishly reluctant groan, she rolled back onto her side, pulled the covers up over her head and curled up tightly as if she intended to return to blissful sleep and let the chance to speak pass her by. She could afford it; they had a whole two weeks stretching lazily ahead of them—plenty of appropriate opportunities would present themselves.

But she had already allowed an entire week to lapse without breathing a word of it. Forgivable, only for the fact he spent most of it drugged up and borderline comatose, connected to copious amounts of monitors and machines, barely managing to squeeze her hand and offer a false smile of reassurance.

It wasn’t her secret to keep, she reminded herself with a sigh of defeat.

The decision finally solidified, she threw off the covers and got out of bed. On her way to the hall, she slipped on her robe and retrieved the proof buried deep in her rucksack. She put it in her pocket and crept swiftly and silently down the stairs.

Outside, in the soft air, Natasha found her husband, sitting still and slightly hunched on the far end of the porch swing, his drowsy gaze lingering over the yard, dimly lit by the far away sun.

Bare feet facilitating quiet steps, she crept onto the decking and stopped, hesitant to interrupt the spell hanging over him.

* * *

In life, it seemed people either existed in a conscious or unconscious state; everyone (with nearly no exception) experiencing both in the span of one day. Tony Stark, however, dwelled in neither; or, rather, he dwelled absolutely in neither.

His constant state of thinking perpetuated an inability to sleep as well as an inability to devote himself to routine life, leaving him trapped in a strange state of hyper-awareness and oblivion.

Most people had a “train of thought”; he had cross-continental lines, multiple stations, car yards and innumerable wrecks scattered about. Thoughts, ideas and musings raced at all speeds on complexly interwoven tracks—new ones created constantly, old ones never put out of service.

Lately, there were more trains than his mind could manage...

So before any trace of sunlight breached the horizon, he abandoned his futile attempts at rest and left the bed, doing so with care not to disturb his peacefully sleeping wife.

Barefooted, he made his way through the house in relative silence, aided by the convenient bluish light from the arc reactor.

Outside, in the soft air, he took up residence on the front porch swing and whole hours slipped by unnoticed.

Clean, chilled air blew through, rustling the tops of trees and sending water-like ripples through the sea of dew-soaked grass covering the surrounding fields. Birds awoke and sang morning songs to one another, crickets continuously carrying the bass notes. The sky blushed with the first hints of colour and stars faded away. No cars, jackhammers or sirens dared interrupt the tranquility blanketing this little corner of a world all too often shrouded in danger.

Lost to his thoughts, Tony let his gaze absently and unseeingly linger over the yard bathed in a transient, pale mix of moonlight and early dawn. Here, sitting alone and still, he worked on a new design for a water purification system while rehearsing a speech for a Board of Directors meeting scheduled three weeks away while replaying the memory of Barton’s kid spitting up on him hours earlier while wondering what could possibly be worrying Natasha; everything demanded his attention and everything held his attention.

The proverbial trains stalled at the creak of the screen door opening. Bare feet stepped onto the hollow wooden decking but didn’t approach.

“Trouble sleeping, darling?” his wife ventured, striving to call him to the moment without startling him.

He turned towards her, blinking rapidly as a few trains ran faster despite his orders to halt all lines. “Couldn’t get comfortable,” he answered when her words finally computed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She shrugged and drew her gown closed, tucking her arms into each other and hugging herself tighter. “Bed gets cold without you,” she remarked, her tone conversational.

“Sorry. I can come back...”

“It’s fine. It’s pretty much morning now, anyway.”

He nodded and idly returned his gaze to the yard. Vaguely realizing he had been rigidly hunched over for quite a while, he moved to straighten up. Stiff muscles protested and pain split through his side. He barely managed to stifle a grunt as he moved imperceptibly to massage the sluggishly healing injuries.

“Why aren’t you wearing the brace?” Natasha asked, her voice as gentle and soft as the light of the new dawn.

He winced; he knew she wouldn’t fail to notice. “I... forgot.”

“The doctor said you need to wear it.”

“I couldn’t find it.”

“Tony...”

He rolled his eyes. “I can’t breathe with that thing on, Tasha,” he grumbled.

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t.”

“You’re being childish.”

“No, you are.”

She shook her head but he caught her fond smile of disapproval and counted the victory. “Then let me help you with some bandages. You have to let those ribs heal.”

“I know, I know,” he said in a sigh, not actually annoyed by her gentle concern. He looked up at her with brighter eyes and a small, lopsided smile; the fog of deep thought had lifted and no trains had crashed. “Are you gonna stand there and nag or come sit and watch the sunrise with me?”

She joined him, accepting the invitation without a glimmer of hesitation. In a very cat-like manner, she curled up beside him, tucking her legs under her and resting against him carefully. As the seat rocked backwards, he anchored his feet to steady them while shifting to accomodate her. The lightest touch ignited hot stings of pain, but he didn’t mention so as he wound an arm around her shoulders.

They stayed like that for a while, at peace in their environment and content in each other’s quiet company. A better cure for anxiety and pain did not exist.

But something unsettling still tainted the calm. Tony had sensed it on the plane, in the car, even at dinner: a looming, intangible presence breathing down his neck but never there when he turned around. He couldn’t bear to have it—whatever “it” was—continue cluttering the air.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, letting his chest expand and his shoulders roll back. “You want to talk about it?” he finally asked.

Tilting her head, she looked up at him, brow furrowed in quizzical suspicion.

He gave a small chuckle. “What? You think I don’t notice when something’s bothering you? You haven’t been yourself all week.”

She nestled her head back down against his shoulder. “I’ve been sitting at my borderline comatose husband’s bedside all week; of course I’m not myself.”

“My near-death experiences don’t usually leave you this... somber,” he pointed out, carefully, vividly recalling a blurry glimpse of her distressed expresssion as doctors and nurses pried crumpled, bloodied plates of armour off him, seconds before he blacked out. “Come on,” he prompted, lowering his voice, “what’s the matter with you, Tasha? Something I said? Something I did? I have a sieve for a memory; you have to help me out here. Something someone else did? You didn’t eat much dinner: are you feeling okay?”

She remained stiff and silent as he quietly rambled on, leaving him to ponder the magnitude of whatever be the secret she kept. Before he could imagine anything too horrible, a deflated sigh slipped from her lips and she drew away from the comfortable embrace, halting his lighthearted but aimless utterings. She slid her hand into the pocket of her gown, pulled out an unassuming stick of plastic and, in one quick, unceremonious motion, passed it to him.

He accepted it and held it gingerly. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, he curled his bandaged hand around his chin and mouth as he examined the slim stick.

By the pale light of the arc reactor, he saw two pink lines framed in a little window.

A minute ticked past and he realized he needed to verbalize some form of acknowledgement.

“Is this yours?” he asked, dumbly.

“Ours, technically,” she replied, gaze drifting to her hands as she clasped them tightly together in her lap, her knuckles turning white.

“And this is... it’s positive?”

Regardless of the redundancy of the question, his wife nodded.

Warmth and sensation drained from his hands and feet, leaving his extremities cold and numb while a sharp heat spread from his tightening, churning stomach.

He scraped a hand down his face to keep his expression under control—he didn’t know what was appropriate to display and he understood even less what he presently felt. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he kept his hand firmly clamped over his mouth, aware throwing up would never be considered an appropriate reaction to anything.

“How long have you known?” he asked when he felt he could.

“I found out on Sunday.”

“Sunday? When I was...?”

“Borderline comatose, yes. You can see why it didn’t seem appropriate to bring it up.”

“So you’ve been dealing with this all week by yourself?” His heart felt cold and heavy with shame as if he had knowingly neglected his duty to her.

Her lips pressed tighter together and he knew she was biting down hard on the insides of her cheeks to keep herself from tearing up—it wasn’t something he saw often but he couldn’t mistake it.

He closed his eyes, filled his sore lungs, and exhaled a long, controlled breath as the impulse to shut it all out, to flee, to retreat, to curl up somewhere not here surfaced. For her sake, he had to keep himself right there.

“Tasha?” He spoke with glue in his throat. “Nothing’s happened yet, has it?”

Her reply was a hardly reassuring, barely audible: “No.”

“So, you’re still...?”

“I think so.”

“Do you know how far along you are?”

“Not exactly, but it can’t be too far yet. Further than I’ve gotten before.”

“You haven’t been to a doctor? Or SHIELD medical? Or... something?”

She shook her head. “There’s no point; you know what they’d say, anyway. That they can’t do anything; that it’s not... viable; that it’s only a matter of time before... you know...”

“You don’t have to say it,” he assured, softly. Gingerly, he reached over to wipe her quiet tears away with the pad of his thumb, her cheek ice cold against his palm. “And you don’t have to worry. We’ll figure this out; we always do.”

For a moment, she leaned in to the hand cupping her face and gave in to the comfort, but he knew the reflexive reassurance wasn’t enough.

With a deflating sigh, she pulled away, taking his hand and holding it in hers. “It’s not that simple,” she said, her expression clearer but her tone still trembling. “This isn’t a mad dictator from another planet, or an army of rogue robots trying to destroy humanity; this is... this is my messed up body and all that stuff they did to it—the stuff I _let_ them do—coming back to haunt me. I can’t fix it; you can’t fix it. There’s just nothing we can do about it. I’m sorry.” She shut her eyes and a stream of tears trickled down each cheek. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“You wanted to spare me?” He didn’t want to sound hurt but he was and it shone through and he didn’t really try to hide it. Thankfully, he possessed enough self-control not to let the “ _How could you?_ ” slip off his tongue.

“You’ve been through enough.”

“So have you. The point is: we go through things _together_ now.”

“Please don’t get your hopes up. I only told you because you have a right to know, not because I thought there’d be a happy ending this time.”

“Don’t talk like that. It... might be different this time. If nothing’s happened yet, we’re not fools to hope. We are _never_ fools to hope. Natasha, you and I fight everyday for people who can’t save themselves.” He squeezed her hand and waited until she conceded and returned her gaze to him before he earnestly concluded: “Someone needs us to fight for them now, so that’s what we’re gonna do: fight.”

She tugged her sleeve over her hand and roughly wiped her now red eyes. “And how are we supposed to do that?”

He looked back at the deceptively simple stick of plastic in his other hand; none of this seemed real. “I don’t know,” he confessed, truthfully. “But we’ll figure something out, I promise.” He attempted a smile that held its shape for the most part. “You know I won’t sleep until I do.”

Her lips quirked at the final assurance and she nodded. None of the fear faded but she couldn’t find it in herself to argue with him anymore—certainly not when hope burned in his eyes like a fire in winter.

He drew her to his side, pressed a kiss to her forehead and held her close.

They stayed like that for a long while, just holding one another safely, keeping the air free of superfluous words and hollow sentiments as they let the reality and uncertainty crash over them...


	3. The Good Doctor

Bruce Banner, not yet awake, answered the call on reflex alone.

Lying flat on his stomach, his head half turned and submerged in a too-soft pillow, he awkwardly bent his arm to hold the phone to his ear. He groaned something unintelligible and nearly drifted off again in the time it took for his caller to respond.

“Hey, Banner? Where are you?” A chirpy voice greeted him.

“Tony?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Hi.”

“ _Whuzthuhtime_?” the doctor slurred.

“Uh... I don’t know what the time is by you. Probably something ungodly. Sorry.”

“ _Whuzthuhproblum_?”

“The problem? Well, it’s, uh... it’s complicated.”

Despite the dense fog of disturbed sleep hanging over him, Bruce did not miss the apprehension in his friend’s voice. He willed himself to wake up further. “When is it not?” he asked, rhetorically but at least somewhat more coherently.

Tony laughed. Nervously. “Oh, trust me: this one’s a doozy.”

 _Why me?_ Bruce thought but didn’t verbalize. Not yet willing to sit up and relinquish all hope of returning to sleep, he slid his other arm under his chest to switch the hand holding the phone and extended the other towards the nightstand to switch on the lamp. Gradually, the light brightened but remained a pleasant, unobtrusive glow—bless the soul that invented smart lamps.

“Where are you?” Tony asked again.

“The compound. In New York. And I _was_ enjoying two weeks without you.”

“Sounding a bit grouchy there, Brucie. Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, did we?”

Bruce huffed out a heavy sigh at his friend’s singsong tone. “I’m still in bed, I want to stay in bed, and you’re being a pest.”

“I love you.”

“That’s debatable.” He rolled onto his back, cinching the covers around his legs, burrito-style, in so-doing. Consciously, he quelled his irritation—Tony enjoyed acting like an over-caffeinated puppy but never bothered anyone unnecessarily. “Why did you call? What’s wrong? Is it -?”

“I’m fine.”

“Which is usually the very thing you say when you’re absolutely not,” Bruce pointed out with tangible exasperation.

“I’m fine,” Tony repeated, calmly and earnestly. “Listen, there’s something else very urgent I need your help with, but I first need you to promise.”

“Promise what?”

“Just say you promise.”

“ _Tony_...”

“Okay, okay; I need you to promise you’ll keep it quiet.”

Bruce gave up on sleep entirely then and sat upright, a frown carving deep lines in his brow. “As your doctor, I am, to a degree, obligated to keep certain matters private,” he explained, seriously. “But if you’re in some kind of trouble or -”

“No, no; it’s not like that,” Tony quickly assured. “Maybe a bit. Not... well, nothing illegal.”

“Whatever it is, it’s getting you worked up. Just tell me,” the older man practically implored. “You have my word I won’t do anything... indiscreet. I would never do anything that could hurt you—you know that.”

A beat of silence from the other end of the faceless exchange followed. Bruce held his breath and strained to listen in as he heard mumbling and material ruffling like his friend had just slipped the phone down and pressed the speaker against his shirt in an attempt to mute a conversation between him and someone else in the room.

Tony held the phone up in time for Bruce to hear him breathe in deeply. “It’s Natasha,” he finally, reluctantly said, not really clarifying anything.

“What about her?” Bruce prompted, inwardly thinking: _I’m a doctor, not a dentist—why do you always make me pull your teeth?_ “Is she in trouble? Is she hurt? Is she missing?”

“No, she’s fine. Okay, not really fine. Well, not not fine. You see, she’s, uh... actually, she’s -”

“Spit it out or I go back to sleep.”

Tony exhaled. “She’s kinda... pregnant.”

“Kinda?”

“She is.”

“What?”

“Pregnant.”

“Yes, I got that bit. Thank you.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. His mouth was dry and his head hurt—typical side-effects of waking up for him, but as he grew agitated, they asserted themselves. He let out a controlled breath and let his hand slip off his face. “Natasha’s pregnant. Okay. That... that should be impossible. Her physiology... it was tampered with so much, she shouldn’t even be able to conceive. Beyond that, her immune system shouldn’t let the pregnancy get far enough for hormones to cause symptoms.”

“We know all that,” Tony said, quietly.

“Is she there?”

“Yeah. You’re on speakerphone, by the way.”

“Hi, Nat.”

“Hi, Doc,” came Natasha’s voice sounding unusually small and tired. “Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s no problem,” Bruce assured, his gentleness restoring.

“Is this too much for you, Banner?” Tony asked, seemingly concerned.

“No, I’m processing it just fine.”

“No chance you’ll Hulk-out?”

“You made a bet before you called me, didn’t you?”

“No!”

“Yes,” Natasha supplied.

“Thought so.” Two days worth of stubble scratched his palm as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “You’re still with the Bartons, right?”

“Yeah; we arrived yesterday.”

“But we can be in New York by this afternoon.”

“Hold your horses, Tony, let’s just go back a step here. How am I supposed to help you if I don’t really know what’s going on? Natasha, I’m assuming you took a test, right?”

“A few, actually.”

“Consistently positive?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, we’re getting somewhere.” As if wrestling off a vicious anaconda, Bruce kicked the tangled sheets off his legs. Once free, he pushed himself to the edge of the bed, planted his bare feet in the soft carpet and reached for his glasses to restore his short-range sight. He got up, crossed the room in a drunken-like stumble and plonked himself down at his desk. “Please explain as much as you know about what’s going on,” he instructed as he turned on the desktop lamp and located a notepad.

Natasha methodically relayed all she knew of her situation (i.e. how far along she suspected she was, the extent of her morning sickness, when she took a test, absolutely anything and everything she could tell was out of the ordinary, etc...). Bruce speedily wrote all the points down, absently making noises of acknowledgement as he kept pace.

“So?” Natasha prompted after she had divulged all she possibly could.

Bruce’s heart clenched at the worry tainting her voice. “Well, you’re definitely pregnant,” he said, calmly. Tapping the lid of the pen on the page, he swiftly reread the notes to himself. “At least seven or eight weeks along. It all sounds like it’s going well, but...” He put the pen down and pushed his glasses up out the way to rub his eyes—this was a lot to wake up to.

“But?” Tony prompted.

“You have to understand it’s still a very vulnerable stage. Through absolutely no fault of the mother, a normal pregnancy may not even reach the second trimester. It just... happens.”

A silence followed and, even all these miles apart, he swore he could feel their blood running cold.

“Aren’t there precautions we can take?” Tony asked, his voice tight.

“Mostly just careful diet and avoiding stress. I can email you some information. Listen, I know you two are pretty unsettled, but please try to stay calm and rest; it’s the best thing you can do for the baby right now. From what I’ve learnt of Natasha’s biology, it prioritizes healing. So if she stays healthy and doesn’t sustain any major injuries, her body will just focus on protecting the baby like any woman’s body naturally would. When you come home, I can run some tests, do a scan, and see where we are. In the meantime, I’ll do research and devise a proper care plan. Of course, if anything happens or you’re just worried about something, call. I can reach you within an hour.”

Even though they were states away from each other, the doctor could feel the weight lifting off his dear friends’ weary shoulders. Tony confirmed the notion with his heartfelt, “Thank you.” which Natasha echoed with equal sincerity.

The issue settled as much as it presently could be, an idle chat followed, their conversation calmly and naturally drifting between subjects of a lighter, more domestic nature. Bruce always enjoyed hearing about the Barton kids’ antics.

The unexpected call wound down on pleasant terms and they said their goodbyes, agreeing to meet together after their vacation.

Bruce, having lost all desire and ability to return to sleep, washed and dressed instead, then made his way to the medical bay which, during quiet times like now, doubled as his research lab. Promptly, he drafted the promised email, sent it off with a few helpful links, then set about gathering all his notes on Natasha’s biology and reviewing what he knew on the whole subject.

Halfway through the morning and halfway through an article about high-risk pregnancies, Bruce paused. A thought occurred to him, distracting and disturbing him. His concentration derailed and he slumped back in his chair, his gaze fixing on empty space as his eyes widened and his jaw slackened.

_Stark and Romanov._

_The world’s most eccentric genius and the world’s most dangerous spy were going to have a child..._

Bruce raked an unsteady hand through his quickly greying hair.

_Oh, have mercy on us..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Bruce Banner so much...
> 
> EDIT 08/2020  
> So, I’ve been trying to continue this story and I figured out the reason I shelved it years ago was that I couldn’t work with the whole secretly married thing—it can work, but I couldn’t get it to fit in this particular story. It makes sense for Tony and Natasha to keep it a secret from the world, but the team?  
> 


	4. Beginning

With a mischievous but delighted cry, Cooper picked up the hose and turned it on his sister.

Despite already being thoroughly soaked, Lila shrieked and brought her arms up to shield her face. When there was a brief break in the assault, she sprang forward and jammed her hand over the head of the hose, sending the water spraying back at Cooper. Instinctively, he dropped it and she seized her chance, grabbing it and turning it on him.

Caught between laughing and shrieking, he took off running as she started chasing him.

“Hey!” Tony called. He spread his arms out—an easy target. “How come he gets all the water?”

Lila took the bait with glee, swinging the hose around in a wide, sloppy arc that sent water spraying all over the now muddy lawn, much to Lucky’s joy.

Tony feigned a surprised cry as the water hit him. Cringing dramatically, he cried: “Ah! No! Stop! Stop! Mercy!”

His performance got Cooper and Lila laughing even harder and banding together to torment him with the hose pipe.

Natasha watched on from the porch swing, shaking her head and laughing softly to herself, enjoying the playful scene.

They had only been here a week so far but the sun and fresh air was already working wonders on Tony; his cuts and bruises and even the dark patches under his eyes had faded—they were still there, still noticeable, but they were certainly healing.

Even she was feeling better, though not physically. Part of Bruce’s care plan proposed they suppress her enhanced immune system to keep it from recognizing the baby as some sort of disease to be stopped. They didn’t have to completely suppress it, just reduce it to normal levels. As unproblematic as that sounded, it meant Natasha would be subject to the full onslaught of pregnancy symptoms.

She had already experienced a glimpse of morning sickness—the otherwise inexplicable nausea and just general out-of-sorts feeling that pushed her to buy that box of tests from the hospital pharmacy two weeks previous. Then, it was hardly an inconvenience, perhaps easily dismissed, if she didn’t know better. Now... well, she was getting very familiar with the toilet bowl in the guest bathroom; just that morning, Tony joked that he felt a bit jealous that she spent more time with it than she did with him (to which she tried to snark something back but another heave interrupted her).

As encouraging and optimistic as Bruce endeavoured to be as he laid out the care plan, he didn’t sugarcoat anything. And Natasha, knowing full well it would not be easy and that nothing was guaranteed, did not hesitate.

So, physically, she felt drained and sick. But other than that?

After some bargaining, Tony herded Cooper and Lila to the porch, stopping to switch off the hose before following them. Lucky watched them leave, looking forlorn that his playmates were abandoning him; he quickly resolved his grief by continuing to roll in the fresh mud.

“Have fun?” Natasha asked, handing her husband two towels from the stack that had kept her company for the past hour.

He huffed a breathless laugh that left a brilliant smile in its wake. “Yeah. We sure did.” He picked one towel and set the other back on the swing seat. Bending down, he settled on his haunches and draped the old green towel around Cooper while Natasha wrapped Lila in hers.

His hands balled up in the worn fabric, Cooper flung his little arms around Tony’s neck; he caught him by surprise but Tony just blinked, forced himself to recover, and returned the hug with one hand on the boy’s back. “Thank you for playing with us,” he said.

Lila joined the hug. “Yeah! Thank you, Uncle Tony!”

“You’re welcome, Baby Agents.”

Natasha indulged another smile.

She was beginning to believe they could have this, too...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s short and I wrote it at, like, midnight, but I really wanted another “Tony and Natasha being an amazing adopted Uncle and Aunt to the Barton Kids” segment.


	5. Heartbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week later and back in New York...

Bruce chuckled. “You look nervous.”

“He’s scared it’s gonna be twins,” Natasha said with only an edge of her usual smirk.

“I’m not scared; I just told you to brace yourself, okay?” Tony clarified. “My dad was a twin and his grandfather was one of triplets; it runs in the family and it skips a generation.”

Bruce stood and gestured to his now empty seat. “Well, then, would you rather sit down?”

Tony’s eyes bulged. “It _is_ twins!?”

“I haven’t even switched on the machine!” Bruce wheeled the seat across the room and set it beside the bed. “Just sit. I do not need you passing out.”

“I am not going to pass out,” Tony grumbled but acquiesced anyway, making sure he gave his friend a glare as he sat down, if for no other reason than to keep the mood light, keep the banter going—it made battling galaxy-conquering titans manageable, maybe it could help now.

“Well, if you do, you’re on your own.” Bruce retrieved another wheeled stool from under one of the desks and continued setting up. “Because I’m just gonna shove you in a corner and get back to my work. I’m not even giving you a pillow.”

Tony mock-gasped. “And you call yourself a doctor? With _that_ bedside manner?”

“You are not my patient today so you are not my problem,” Bruce said, distractedly, punctuating his words with a staccato string of typing at the computer.

Tony racked his brain to find another comeback, another jab or joke—just something to stretch the back-and-forth a little further—but nothing came.

As much as he tried to smother it under wisecracks and subject changes or release it under the guise of something mundane or ridiculous, the real anxiety was still there, still gnawing away at him, wearing him down. He was no stranger to it in general, but this version was so different, so much deeper and so much sharper than what he was used to.

He never for a moment forgot that this was Natasha’s fight, too; the fear that plagued him, plagued her a hundred times more.

She hid it well. Just sitting on the bed, one knee up, she looked calm, almost bored as she fixed her gaze on the crisp view of the lake afforded by the windows dominating the wall behind Bruce.

Tony couldn’t believe her nonchalance, not when she had asked to take the long way from their apartment to the medbay that morning, and then asked if they could just sit by the lake a little longer; not when he had spent the past few nights with her on the bathroom floor, feeling so utterly useless as she threw up, over and over again; not when he had struggled to lighten the mood, to find words or gestures with meaning, with even just a sliver of healing power, and just having to settle for holding her when the exhaustion took its toll.

He may not have believed her crafted cool, but he sure did envy it.

Sitting there beside her now, made to wait in the quiet, his whole body ached to fidget. His fingers were itching to click and snap, to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt, to just grab something—anything—off Bruce’s tidy desk and turn it over and over in his hands for absolutely no reason.

But none of that would help anyone. Calling on every last ounce of the self-control the world accused him of lacking, he shut his eyes, took a deep breath as slowly and silently as possible, forced his body to be still, and took Natasha’s hand.

She exhaled, her expression cracking for just an instant. She laced her fingers with his, squeezing tight enough that both her and his knuckles turned white.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just brought their interlocked hands up to his lips; as he pressed a kiss to her cold fingers, her death grip lost some tension.

Bruce let them have their moment. He obviously had everything ready but he ducked his head and made a very convincing show of inspecting the transducer, the bottle of gel, even a box of napkins. After a minute, and having quickly run out of things to fake set up, he cleared his throat. “Good to go?”

Natasha nodded and slipped her hand free of Tony’s to lift her shirt up. He didn’t miss the way her gaze flicked off to the side again; she hated baring her scarred midriff, hating feeling even just that little bit exposed.

Bruce applied the gel, mumbling an awkward little “Sorry.”

Natasha didn’t say anything, just reached for Tony’s hand, which he gave without hesitation, placing the other on her shoulder and rubbing her upper arm with his thumb.

The next few minutes crawled past, silence kept at bay with the soft whirring of the electronics and Bruce’s intermittent typing on the keyboard or clicking with the mouse. Every now and then, he would ask Natasha to hold her breath for a second or mumble some measurement or the other to himself but nothing else.

Tony watched the monochrome images blur and zip across the monitor. He had endured his fair share of ultrasounds—he had to get an echocardiogram at least once a year (another thing he trusted Bruce with). He could distinguish the different chambers of the heart and he knew what the shrapnel looked like, but he didn’t know what to look for in a prenatal ultrasound. He could learn; he could learn anything he set his mind to, but he very purposefully came here today sans a crash course in sonography. Natasha needed him as a husband today, not as a scientist.

She didn’t look at the screen; she just lay there, rigid as steel, staring up at the ceiling.

Tony resorted to gleaning clues from Bruce’s expression; there was a notably pensive crease in his brow, but it was too neutral to lend itself to any sure conclusion.

Eventually, Bruce’s brow smoothed out and a bright smile split his face. “You guys need to hear this,” he said and, not awaiting a response, clicked something on the screen.

Natasha instinctively tightened her hold on Tony’s hand as the computer relayed a quick, steady rhythm of muffled and garbled but still very distinct thumps.

Tony forgot to breathe for a second. He looked to Bruce. “Is that...?” His throat closed, halting the words.

His friend nodded. “That’s the heartbeat. And this,” he pointed to the monitor, dragged the mouse to highlight a portion of the sonogram, took a picture and kept the image on screen for a moment, “is your baby.”

It... really just looked like a lopsided jellybean, though an argument could be made for an inflated cashew nut.

Still, no masterpiece in ink or paint or stone could’ve meant more to Tony; they certainly couldn’t draw all the air from his lungs in one breath, leaving his chest burning and his heart racing like this. He looked to Natasha; she had abandoned her reluctance, her eyes now glued to the monitor as an unsteady smile tugged at her lips.

“Definitely ten weeks old and definitely just the one—seems you managed to dodge that Stark curse,” Bruce said, readjusting the wand on Natasha’s abdomen and continuing scanning. “Not ectopic, so that’s good. All the measurements are fantastic, actually. Textbook.”

“How big is it?” Natasha asked; Tony could feel the rigidity in her shoulders starting to ease.

“Uh... roughly... the size of a strawberry.”

“What kind of strawberry?” Tony asked. “They aren’t universally the same size, you know.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “A normal strawberry. About...” he held up his free hand, setting his forefinger and thumb about two inches apart, “this big.”

Natasha blinked, filing that tidbit away. “Can you... can you tell what it is?”

Bruce shook his head. “Not yet.”

Tony leaned over and pressed a kiss to Natasha’s forehead. “They’re a fighter, that’s what they are.”

* * *

  
Tests and examinations filled the next few hours; the summer sun had slipped and softened to a more enjoyable warmth by the time Tony and Natasha retired to the compound’s residential block.

As Natasha showered, Tony scoured their magnet-ladened refrigerator for one depicting a strawberry and soon found it hiding on the side, in amongst a gathering of cat Avengers (an anniversary gift from Kamala). He tacked the sonogram on the refrigerator door, in between the grocery list and week planner.

Natasha came through and curled up on the couch. She still looked pale and tired, the shower taking more than it gave; but at least she looked comfortable in his faded California shirt and, he suspected, his grey sweats.

It wasn’t yet evening but she said she could handle dinner now so he made dinner (just cereal—it was the only thing she could keep down and the only thing that didn’t stink to her at the moment).

As daylight began fading, Daisy stopped by. She and the others were heading out for curry—apparently, Thor had discovered a food truck that served something called “bunny chow”; he wouldn’t stop raving about it and now everyone wanted to try it, mostly out of curiosity.

Tony, mindful not to fall into excuses, just told her he and Natasha had planned to spend the evening in. Daisy wished them a good time and promised to bring them each a bunny chow, if it really was as good as Thor said.

They tried to watch a movie— _Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ , their go-to—but Tony had to carry Natasha to bed before the dolphins even finished their song.

He joined her. Even though he rarely slept a whole night through, he still made an effort to go to bed the same time as her.

He lay on his back for hours, propped up by pillows, arms folded behind his head, just staring at the diffused splash of light his arc reactor cast on the ceiling.

He remembered the other times; he didn’t think he could ever forget and it didn’t feel right to try. They would always be a part of him and a part of Natasha, no matter what.

Lying here now, fuzzy black and white pictures playing in a loop in his head, fighting for real estate amidst the usual clutter and train wrecks, he told himself he should stay cautious. But the optimist in him—the one that had believed and fought tooth and nail to get out of every cave and bottle this world had dragged him into, the one that could learn and heal and march on—wanted to hope.

For tonight, while he had his wife curled up beside him and sleeping soundly, he could let himself hope.

When his eyes finally grew heavy, he gave in and let Natasha’s steady breathing and the memory of a little heartbeat lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you all enjoyed reading it.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who’s left kudos and comments; I don’t always know what to reply but I have to tell you I appreciate every little word (English or otherwise), every incoherent keyboard smash, and even the emojis. Thank you 3000!
> 
> 🍁


	6. Out of Commission

Sleep didn’t usually sneak up on Natasha; but, then again, she’d been trained to not let herself acknowledge basic needs like hunger and exhaustion until she was safe—and she never felt truly safe until it was just her and Tony.

The evening had only just begun fading in when they curled up on the couch. Well, “curled up” wasn’t quite an accurate term; it was more of a coordinated sprawl. Regardless, she was finally comfortable—pressed up against him, stealing his warmth, letting the synchronized thrum of his arc reactor, his heartbeat, and his deep, even breathing draw the dregs of unease and worry from her being. For now, everything was alright.

She was already slipping asleep when he offered a movie. She heard herself hum an agreement, her body too heavy, too disconnected to try forming coherent, audible words.

The movie started. Her eyes refused to open even the slightest and all sound grew muffled and distant. Vaguely, she wished she had a blanket.

Tony shifted, carefully, thoughtfully, but it was still enough to pull her back to the edge of consciousness. He moved away, taking his warmth and heartbeat with him.

She made a noise—it was so pathetic, if she’d been even the slightest bit more aware, she would’ve hated herself. Now, she didn’t care; she wanted to stay here, wanted to sleep.

Why was he moving so much? Couldn’t he just...?

Arms slid underneath her and lifted her up.

A flash of instinctual panic rose at the touch, at someone holding her in a position she couldn’t control. She stirred, tried to drag herself awake and defend herself.

“Shh. It’s okay, Tasha; it’s just me—just Tony.”

The hushed, familiar voice reached her and she let herself relax. She trusted these arms—armoured or not, they always caught her.

Next thing she knew, she was in their bed, under the covers. Habit forced her onto her side, coiling her body up tight and secure. When a warm weight settled behind her, she drew closer to it, to him, and finally gave in to sleep.

* * *

For the first time in weeks, she slept right through the night and well into the morning, nausea and nightmares graciously bowing out and allowing her a rare dose of rest.

The other side of the bed was, unsurprisingly, empty. Somehow she just knew he’d stayed longer this time.

She got up. Routine tugged at her, insisting she dress and commence her workout and training. It didn’t take much effort to decline; she may have managed a whole night’s worth of sleep, but it wasn’t nearly as replenishing as it should have been. (That, and she wasn’t entirely sure what she could and couldn’t do regarding exercise—Bruce was still working on that part of the care plan).

She shuffled from the bedroom to the kitchen—actually shuffled, her body still too tired to pick her feet up between each step.

It seemed Tony had achieved the benefits of a full night’s sleep. He had already showered and dressed; Natasha took note of his business attire—smart slacks, pressed shirt, untied tie hanging around his neck. A mental memo sprang up, reminding her of something important he had coming up but she hadn’t paid enough attention to their schedule over the past few weeks to recall details.

He stood in front of the microwave, waiting, his arms folded and his back to her. She purposely didn’t silence her drowsy steps but he still visibly tensed in the split second between sensing another’s presence and registering their identity.

Twisting around, he saw her and broke out a smile, his arms unfolding and inviting her. “Ah, the dead arise.”

“Ha ha.” Natasha accepted the invitation and they locked together; no hesitation, no force—they just fell into place with one another like magnets. Still, she was careful not to hold on too tightly; he may have been standing straighter and not taking as many shallow breaths, but he wasn’t completely healed yet.

Her sense of smell had been so heightened and sensitive ever since the immuno-suppressants let her enjoy a more authentic morning sickness experience; everything stank, everything churned her stomach, even innocuous things she thought didn’t have any notable scent like tap water. But things weren’t so bad this morning; Tony’s coffee and cologne registered as normal, even comforting again.

Whatever he was making for breakfast, however, was another story.

The microwave dinged. Tony didn’t hurry to pull away; she didn’t really want it to end, but she let him go and then strategically moved to take a seat on a barstool on the other side of the kitchen island—as far as she could go to get away from the smell of food but still be in his company.

He pulled a bowl out of the microwave. Natasha had to wait for the cloud of steam to dissipate before glimpsing... soggy bread filled with vibrantly coloured curry.

Just as a precaution, she covered her nose. “What is that?”

“Bunny chow. Apparently.” Tony retrieved a fork from a drawer and poked at his breakfast while withdrawing to a further corner of the kitchen. “Daisy dropped it off for us last night, when you were asleep. It’s Thor’s new favourite food.” He took a bite, frowned thoughtfully, and went in for another. “She said it was really hot but—” a short, terse cough interrupted him. “Oh. Okay. There it is.”

Natasha snickered. “Milk’s in the fridge, dear.”

Tony shook his head and took another bite. “Nuh-uh. I can take it.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged and headed to the refrigerator anyway—it was probably a good idea to eat while she wasn’t feeling so sick—but she stopped short.

She hadn’t expected to see the sonogram on the door of the fridge, fixed perfectly at eye-level, nestled amongst their lists and planners and appointment cards and all the magnets they took to collecting for some dumb reason.

Subconsciously, she traced the black and white shapes on the smooth paper and the cartoonish strawberry holding it in place with a featherlight touch.

Grasping the reality of this situation still eluded her. In the wildly hopeful moments, she saw her and Tony and their child; in the moments fear threatened, she protected herself by just shutting down and not thinking about it. It had been easier to believe when they were with the Barton family, so close to Clint and Laura’s joy, enticed to imagine their own; now they were back to normal, back in the world they belonged, and it was a lot harder to deny who and what they were in the midst of it.

But just seeing these blurry pictures, just hearing that heartbeat... it pushed the vacillating mass of hope and fear aside, told perception and imagination to take a hike, and said: “No. Doesn’t matter what you think; doesn’t matter what you tell yourself. Right now, _this is real_.”

It was just a bit difficult to keep believing it...

“So, I should be back by lunch,” Tony said, his voice careful but trying for casual.

“Hmm? Sorry?” Natasha shook herself and resumed her task of searching the fridge, even though she was quickly losing interest in breakfast.

He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve got that board meeting today. Can’t shift it again; Pepper already rescheduled it because of that scrap I got into with Whiplash and then, you know,” flippantly, he drew a circle in the air with his fork, “our vacation and all... that.”

Natasha frowned and straightened up, altogether abandoning her act. “If you don’t feel well, Pepper will understand.”

“I’m fine, honey, don’t worry,” he assured, fondly exasperated. A beat later, his expression faltered and he dipped his head, suddenly very interested in that curry. “It’s just... I... I don’t want to... well, you know...”

Realization broke her frown. “You don’t want to leave me on my own.”

He met her gaze, took a breath to speak, made half a sound, then shut his mouth and glanced away.

It was hard to explain, and even harder to understand; she gave him credit for trying and an uninterrupted minute to try again.

“It’s not that I think you can’t take care of yourself; I know you can.” He took a quick breath. “And I know I can’t really... do anything to help. But I don’t... I mean, I just...” The words stalled again, leaving him looking lost.

“I will be okay,” she said.

He nodded, the action stilted and hard. “I know.”

“And I won’t be alone. Jarvis is always here. And Bruce is just in his lab; anything happens, I’ll call him.”

Another nod, another “I know.”

“And Tony?” She waited until he picked up on the cue, waited for him to concede and raise his gaze to meet hers again. When he did, she gave him a smile infused with as much assurance as she could muster this soon after waking up. “You do help.”

It took a minute, but when Tony tried to smooth the worry from his expression and mirror her smile, she actually managed to believe it.

She slipped hers into a smirk—it felt like it fit this time. “Frankly, I’m more worried about the board.”

The shift in topic and tone tugged an eyebrow down, then he caught on to her mischievous hint. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

She pointed to his breakfast. “They have to sit in a closed room with you all morning.”

He laughed; his real laugh, the one with a snort. “This is a very strategic move, mind you. It’s called mutually assured destruction.”

“Whatever you call it, I’m just glad it’s them and not me.”

* * *

Not ten minutes after Tony left, a discreet, electronic chime alleviated the just settling silence.

“Agent Romanov, Director Fury has just arrived in the apartment complex,” Jarvis announced.

“Is he coming here?”

In the space above the kitchen island, a holographic screen appeared and relayed crisp security footage of Fury, striding down the corridor, his back straight, his pace precise and purposeful but not unduly hurried. “Well, he appears to be carrying a rather hefty paper file,” Jarvis pointed out. “In my experience, he only ever brings those here.”

Natasha looked down at the bowl of muesli she’d just made; this day clearly did not want her to get through breakfast and, really, she didn’t feel like fighting that. She left it by the sink and headed to the bedroom.

Ordinarily, she would’ve been dressed for the day by now. She could probably squeeze in a shower in the time it would take Fury to reach the apartment, but she didn’t feel like moving that fast. Instead, she put her hair up and grabbed a gown (again, Tony’s; of course she had her own, but his things were always comfier, and stealing them in a comically obvious fashion was pure tradition at this point).

Fury knocked and waited. He only barged or snuck in during emergencies—emergencies were just so commonplace in his line of work that people had a tendency to misinterpret that as his nature, much like they did hers.

Natasha made her way to the entrance corridor but gave a quick flick of her fingers for Jarvis to open the door before she reached it.

“Next time that husband of yours decides to relocate the Avengers, I expect him to take into account the location of the SHIELD head office,” Fury griped the second he stepped over the threshold, deep voice filling the space. “Do you have any idea how long I sat in traffic?”

“Good morning, Nick.”

“For you, maybe. You didn’t have an idiot in a mini sitting on your butt the whole drive over.”

“You know Tony will just suggest you parachute from the Helicarrier next time, right?”

Fury rolled his eye. “Of course he would...” He cast a quick glance over her; whatever conclusions he drew from her admittedly disheveled state, he decided they didn’t need verbalizing. Still, his expression shifted, softening around the edges. “How is he?”

“Still stiff and sore, but better.”

“He got lucky.”

“Yeah. He did.” She glanced pointedly at the file Fury held at his side. “Business?”

His mouth pressed into a grim line. “Some leads turned up regarding the Whiplash incident.”

Natasha frowned. “Leads? I thought it was pretty straightforward.”

“Initially, it seemed so. But, as you know, you tug on a thread and things start unravelling. Long story short, it doesn’t look like the Maggia hired Scarlotti.”

Something stung in her chest and her stomach clenched. She moved towards the living room, towards the couch, putting forth effort to make it look casual. “And short story long?”

Fury followed her, took a seat on the opposite couch to her, set the file down on the coffee table between them and opened it. “It comes down to two threads. First of all: Scarlotti got away, of course, but he left behind one of his whips.” He flipped through the papers until he reached a photograph of the whip laying limp on dirty asphalt, its serrated segments still covered in deep red blood—Tony’s blood. “SHIELD managed to salvage it and our technicians have been analyzing it. Now, the Maggia are largely traditionalist when it comes to their weapons, but they have developed a mutually beneficial affiliation with AIM in recent years. AIM supplied Scarlotti’s original gear, which was an amalgamation of Vanko’s designs and bits and pieces of Stark weapons—both bootleg and authentic. The Maggia paid for all that. This,” he tapped the photograph, “still has traces of Stark’s tech, but everything else about it is new and unlike anything we’ve come across before.”

“So they got a new supplier?”

Fury shook his head. “The Maggia went on an arms shopping spree this past month. Coulson’s team has been interrupting as many of these deals and shipments as possible, the most recent being just last week.” He flipped through the file again, stopped at a section with a cluster of photographs and specs of various guns, all smooth and fancy and brutal. “These are all AIM. Scarlotti got his tech somewhere else.”

Natasha skimmed through a random page of the specs and the technicians’ notes—while she wasn’t on Tony’s level, she understood a fair bit of the jargon. “Which... isn’t unusual. Despite his history with the Maggia, he’s always operated more as a mercenary.”

“And I would’ve been satisfied to leave it there.”

“But?”

“The second thread.” Without turning the papers again, he pulled out another photograph, this time of a young woman: dark hair, dark eyes, makeup and dress and jewellery aiming for elegant and glamorous but completely missing tasteful along the way. “Recently, the Maggia have been caught up in something of a domestic dispute. Count Nefaria’s daughter, Giulietta, has been trying to take over the family business. By force. The family is split down the middle. They don’t have time to focus on taking down Iron Man, especially when he hasn’t even crossed their path for months.”

Natasha sifted through the file until she found the first picture of the whip. Something about its design rang a faint bell but no connections presented themselves. “So Whiplash got his gear somewhere else, and the Maggia are too preoccupied to put out such a high profile hit.”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“But you don’t know who made the gear or who hired him.”

Fury sat a little straighter. “That is where you and Stark come in.”

She saw that coming. It was like this mission had been handcrafted specially for them, calling as much for her finesse as it did his expertise.

As Fury continued, outlining other instances of enemy tech with components similar to the new Whiplash gear and the few, hazy leads to the shadowy figure at the centre of it all, a plan of action wrote itself in her mind, quick as an electric shock. Where to begin, who to contact, the paths to take, the favours to cash in—the spy in her was awake and alive and raring to go.

Tony would enjoy dissecting Whiplash’s tech as much as she would enjoy tracking down whoever had the audacity to put a hit out on her husband.

This was her nature, her element. Following clues and traces, bringing all the scattered puzzle pieces together, unravelling the mystery, never knowing just what the big picture will look like in the end, or where the —

She stopped herself.

It wouldn’t all be simple desk work.

“We may not be able to take this on,” she said. When no reply came, she glanced to Fury to ensure she had spoken aloud and not just in her head.

Some of the solemnity gave way to sympathy and he leaned forward. “I realize Tony may not be up to dealing with this so soon —”

“No, it’s not that. It’s me, actually. I’m...” she trailed off, uncertainty derailing her explanation.

Only Bruce knew, and that was out of pure necessity. They had decided not to tell Clint and Laura—as much as they trusted them, it didn’t feel right, not when it was their time to be happy. And they hadn’t sat down and discussed telling any others yet.

But they couldn’t keep it a secret indefinitely...

“While Tony was in the hospital, I... found out I’m pregnant.” She kept her gaze fixed on the papers covering the coffee table; she could sense the consolation in his expression, she knew she wouldn’t take seeing it (she blamed the hormones). “It looks like it may work out this time.”

A warm, calloused hand reached out and covered hers—it was a small gesture, but considering its source, it spoke volumes. “I understand,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze and then drawing back. He kept the silence in place for a moment, offering no further sentiments or sympathies—she didn’t need or want them, and he knew that; it wasn’t them, it wasn’t how they cared. “Would you mind if I left this with you anyway?” he asked. “You’re still my best agent and Stark’s gonna want a part of this.”

She considered it for a minute before nodding. “I just can’t do any of the heavy lifting.”

Fury stood up. “Leave that to me. Just do what you can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll bet you thought I forgot about ol’ Whiplash ;)


	7. The Distract and Conquer Strategy

“The stock is going to be a major talking point.”

“Uh-huh.”

New York didn’t feel the same, but Tony couldn’t figure out what had changed.

“And that very public tussle with Whiplash is going to come up. It has a lot of investors nervous. Hence the stock drops.”

“Right. Got it.”

Everything was more or less right the way he had left it. There were some newly bent streetlights and a few obviously filled-in craters littering the sidewalks (apparently the X-Men and the Brotherhood had had another... tiff). But, other than that, it was the same city, teeming with the same hustle and bustle.

“But if we pull their focus to the latest advancements in our medical tech departments, we may be able to keep them happy... or distracted, at the very least.”

“Yeah? Good. That’s good.”

Actually, scratch that. The hustle and bustle was different. The people were... it was summer—summer vacation. There were more families out and about.

“We just have to be careful not to get through the business side of business too soon or we’ll back ourselves into a corner.”

“Of course.”

A young boy sat on his father’s shoulders, clearly thrilled by his new perspective of the world. His mother walked alongside; she looked like she was enjoying the sunny morning and whatever they had planned, but she still kept a careful eye on her son.

“Oh, and Galactus called. He’d like to replace our CFO.”

“Okay.”

Tony didn’t know the family, but he found himself hoping they had a good day, hoping nothing bad happened to them. Bad things happened way too often, especially these days —

He jerked backwards. Blinking rapidly, he pulled his gaze away from the window and rushed to orient himself. Car, backseat, Pepper, board meeting, stocks... Galactus? “Wait, what?”

Her glare, shot sideways, was about as subtle as his spacing out. “Are you with me now?”

He pried his fingers off the door handle, his knuckles aching from the death-grip. “Yeah. Sorry. Just... making sure New York’s still in one piece.”

“It’s all there and I can assure you it will still be there after this meeting.”

“I know.”

“Tony, I really need you to focus on —”

“So. Classic distract and conquer strategy?”

The sharp turn back to the matter at hand did little to convince Pepper he was fully on board, but she didn’t work with him for more than a decade and not learn the meaning of “futile” so she let it go with a terse sigh. “Basically, we just need to show them you aren’t dead and remind them that, even if you were, the company is standing on its own two feet and moving ahead.”

Tony grimaced. “Did the stock really drop that bad?”

She passed him her tablet, dropping it in his lap before he could track the movement. He stamped down the instinct to jolt backwards and forced himself to hold it, forced his focus to hone in on the colourful graphs and charts on the screen, forced himself to ignore the sudden flare of heat in his chest.

“You got attacked by a guy who sliced a garbage truck in half like it was a block of butter and then you made no verifiable appearance for almost a month. Yes, the stock suffered. Haven’t you seen the news?”

“Uh... no. Not really. Been a bit busy... recovering, you know?”

Something adjusted in her expression at that; he never did learn the right word to describe it—he knew it wasn’t quite sympathy, but it wasn’t totally devoid of care, either. With or without a name, he had come to understand it as her way of saying-without-saying: “Your life is ridiculous and I’m surprised you aren’t dead or dismembered yet... but I am glad you’re well.”

“Look,” she said, her critical tone easing, “I’ll run point on this. Just back my play and do what you do best.”

“Put on a show?”

That got a smile. “Yes, but no fireworks.”

“How about sparklers?”

“Nothing flammable.”

“Buzz-kill.”

“Fine. You can have glow-sticks.”

“Thanks, boss.”

* * *

Business mode took over, enabling Tony to project his most presentable version of himself: not dead, not in pain, totally on the ball and not thinking about anything that didn’t pertain to the company and its interests.

He sold the image well—Obadiah used to say he could sell water to a drowning man—but that was all it was: an image, i.e. no substance.

The pretty picture started fading as the meeting ran overtime. It was just a few small things: he couldn’t quite sit up straight, his replies came short and clipped, and he was just too aware of the knot of his tie touching his throat.

No one noticed; no one that wasn’t Pepper, anyway.

From all the way on the other side of the room, she caught him sliding two fingers between his tie and collar, not-so-subtly trying to tug it loose. She gave him a look; not exactly the glare he earned earlier in the car, but it was nearly there.

He corrected the action, turning it into a subconscious attire assessment. It couldn’t fool her but it didn’t have to.

They only just reached the finance affairs as the clock struck noon. Tony excused himself to the bathroom; he didn’t have to, but he mentioned the curry—it bought a few knowing chuckles and an eye-roll from Pepper which was always worth it.

After washing up, he didn’t hurry to return. He pulled out his phone and commandeered a spot on the floor near the sinks—Stark Tower’s restrooms were cleaner than operating theatres and his germophobia came and went as it pleased, so as long as he didn’t think about it, he was okay.

He wasn’t surprised to see no messages waiting for him; Pepper used to insist he keep his personal phone off while handling SI business but Iron Man, SHIELD liaising, and then the Avengers corroded that rule—now she just asked he keep it on silent.

No messages didn’t necessarily mean no problems. A tight, invisible band remained fixed around his chest as he typed and sent off a simple “Everything alright?” message.

Natasha replied within seconds. “All fine.”

Tony told himself he had to believe that. “Might be home an hour late,” he told her.

She sent a low resolution picture of a kitten with big, sad eyes.

He huffed a laugh, the small sound echoing in the confined space. The fact he married the World’s Most Dangerous Women never for a moment escaped him, but it certainly made her brand of texting that much more amusing.

“Want me to get you anything?”

“No. Had lunch ;)”

“Ok. Stay safe. Love you.”

He signed off with a heart emoji because that was another thing he did now (Peter once told him it was inaccurate and he should use the blue circle instead).

He checked the news, then checked his message bank again. No calls to assemble, no giant robots attacking the city, no aliens threatening invasion. He checked the time, reminded himself he had to get back. He checked the weather... and then the news again, just to be sure.

Nothing was happening in the world—nothing he could fix, anyway. It should’ve been a relief, but it wasn’t.

Giving the phone a rest, he shut his eyes and tilted his head back against the cold, tiled wall. Silence asserted itself, but between the constant ringing in his ears and the white noise of his thoughts, he hardly noticed.

Hiding in the bathroom wasn’t exactly professional; he knew he should pick himself up off the floor, get back, and give this his best, as was expected... but motivation eluded him.

In a bid to compromise, he allotted five minutes of peace and sternly told himself he couldn’t have more than that. When his five minutes were up, he got to his feet and headed out before he could argue.

Somewhere along the way back to the conference room, he decided to ditch the tie altogether, rolling it up and stowing it in his pocket.

The mood had shifted in his absence; judging by the stiff set of Pepper’s shoulders, it wasn’t good...

* * *

It was close to two in the afternoon by the time Tony got back to the Compound.

Sam, testing his new wings by flying circuits overhead, saw him arrive and waved from the sky; Tony responded with a mock salute.

On his way to the residential block, he caught sight of Steve and Daisy jogging around the lake; they were far enough away that he couldn’t exactly hear what they were saying to each other, but he still heard Daisy’s laugh—full and bright and real.

Beyond them, he just managed to glimpse some coloured blurs zipping about amongst the trees bordering the far side of the lake. Red and blue, white and black and teal, and—only now and then—a black and red blur: Peter, Gwen, and Miles. They liked to call their races and convoluted games of tag “training” in the hopes of appearing serious; Tony really didn’t care what they called it, he was just glad they were all enjoying their summer vacation.

Tracing his way through the lobby, heading for the elevator, a thought occurred to him: if someone had told him just six years ago that this was where Iron Man would take him, that he’d make a home filled with such crazy, colourful, incredible people, he wouldn’t have imagined anything like this; here on the other side of it, he couldn’t believe his life had once been so bland.

He wasn’t holding himself so stiffly when he finally reached his apartment, but hours of playing businessman had strained his still healing muscles. A dull but deep ache radiated from his core and seemed to settle in his bones; with effort, he could continue ignoring it, but experience warned him it would be worse the next day.

It didn’t escape Natasha’s trained sight. The second he walked in, her head snapped up and her gaze flicked from the hefty folder in her lap to him. After just a mere glimpse, her lips quirked and “I told you so” lit up in brilliant neon in her eyes.

He pointed an exaggeratedly stern finger at her. “Don’t say it!”

She tilted her head and batted her eyelashes. “Okay. Then you say it.”

“No.”

“Then I’m gonna say it.”

“Don’t you d—”

“You should’ve worn the brace.”

He rolled his eyes but a smile ruined the effect. “For the record, you didn’t tell me to wear it today.”

She shrugged and returned her attention to... whatever she was doing. “I’ve said it like a million times already; just pull up a memory and stamp today’s date on it.”

“Nag.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah. I do.” He kicked off his shoes and draped his wrinkled suit jacket over the arm of the couch.

Without looking, Natasha gathered some of the papers splayed out on the couch cushions and patted the now free space.

Tony accepted the invitation, collapsing bonelessly beside her. He took advantage of the respite and tried to relax; he didn’t mean for his eyes to slip closed, but he really wasn’t up to fighting it.

As nice as it was to be back in his own space, with Natasha safe and sound beside him, he got the sense this day wasn’t over just yet. “I’m a little scared to ask: but what is all...” he gestured halfheartedly, his hand hardly rising off the couch, “this?”

“Our next mission. Fury dropped it off just after you left this morning.” She nudged him softly in the side with her elbow before sliding the folder from her lap to his.

With a frown, Tony opened his eyes. “Natasha, I don’t know if you should —”

“I told him.”

“Oh.” He blinked and smoothed out the frown; it came back half-strength. “And... what did he say?”

“That he’ll take care of the heavy lifting.” She tapped the folder. “This looks like it’s more about research and connect-the-dots than chasing bad guys anyway.”

“Yeah, they always _start_ that way.” Reluctantly, he pulled himself out of his slouch and began flipping through the papers. Reports, he supposed; he wasn’t making himself read anything. The thick blocks of words upon words soon gave way to photographs and he slowed down—maybe he could piece it together with just pictures for now.

The first few didn’t immediately connect to any relevant information: shards of metal, charred and jagged; bits of broken glass scattered over asphalt; cars with gashes and slashes and crumpled hoods.

Everything rushed into focus when he came to a photograph of a long, coiled tail of razors—segmented for flexibility and serrated for brutality.

“This is about Whiplash,” he said, his voice somehow quieter than he meant it to be.

“Fury’s been looking into it. He doesn’t think the Maggia was involved.”

“Okay... so who is?”

“He doesn’t know. Our best lead right now is whoever supplied Scarlotti’s new tech.” Natasha picked out a leaf of papers from the spread by her hip. “Here,” she said as she placed it in his grasp, covering the photographs. “This is the report from SHIELD’s engineers. They’ve been examining it and this is what they have so far.”

“I didn’t know he left anything behind.”

“Well, I doubt he meant to; he was just in a hurry to get away.”

“Yeah, Hulk has that effect on people.”

Tony skimmed through the specs, curiosity buying his concentration. With just a glance, he could tell it wasn’t AIM’s handiwork, as he (and everyone else) had initially assumed. The design wasn’t simple, but it was straightforward, not encumbered with all the unnecessary frills AIM loved to add just because they could.

Also, it relied more on hardware than software. It was designed to shred and tear and slash, to make a mess: AIM liked weapons of devastion, such as blasters and bombs, but they thought too highly of their technological prowess to resort to tricking out medieval torture implements.

He scoured the information, the mechanic in him taking over, dismantling and reconstructing, fitting all the bits into place, seeing all the ways to improve it. Some parts struck him as just too familiar, stoking a weatherbeaten sense of indignation as he recognized components of his own invention mingled in with the otherwise unique design.

The report ended too quickly. Turning the last page, expecting to find more, the photograph of the whip lying inert on the road caught him off guard.

Huh.

He hadn’t noticed all that blood before... Was it all his? Had to be. Must’ve been from when it —

He closed the folder; he did it too fast and some papers folded funny and others just fell out altogether. “I’d like to have a look at the tech myself,” he said.

Natasha hummed. “I thought you might.”

“SHIELD engineers are good but... there’s, um... there’s things that they... they miss things.”

“Yeah, I know.” With the grace of her namesake, she moved the folder off his lap and placed it on the coffee table. With slow, purposeful movements, she tended to the papers, neatening and straightening, replacing and reordering, clearing the couch and the table. “How’s Pepper?” she asked, her tone light, even, steadying.

Tony rubbed at his eyes, tried to shift gears and follow along. “She’s... she’s good.”

“And Happy? Still enjoying the security business?”

He attempted a laugh; it sounded strangled. “Must be. HR is flooded with complaints. I didn’t see him today, though.”

“Too busy?”

“No. Pepper said he had a cold.”

“Again?”

“I think he’s just allergic to Socrates.”

He knew what she was doing. It was a trick, in the same way saving someone from drowning by luring them back to land after they’ve unwittingly drifted too far out to sea is a trick. It worked: he was back in the shallows. He wasn’t on the shore yet but at least he could stand.

He appreciated the distract and conquer strategy—really, he did—but...

Leaning forward, he got the weight off his chest so he could take a full breath. He held it, counted, then let it go in a sigh. “I’m sorry, Tasha, it’s just...”

“It’s alright. It’s always a little bumpy getting back into things.”

“But it shouldn’t be. I should be better than this.”

She moved. He braced, expecting a hand on his back or shoulder, but none came; instead, she uncrossed her legs and tucked them underneath her, moving so as to press up against his side. “It came up in the meeting today, didn’t it?” she ventured.

He nodded.

“Let me guess: the stocks dipped.”

“A bit, but the board was more concerned with...” He gestured, stiffly, aimlessly, but it didn’t help him find the words.

“With... how it looked?” Natasha supplied.

An empty laugh slipped out; he instantly wished he could take it back. “You know, it’s funny: when Iron Man takes on alien invasions or monsters that popped right out of fairytales, he looks like a hero; but when he gets into a wrestling match with a mobster who leaves him looking like a soda can someone stepped on, he’s just... reckless.”

In all fairness, it wasn’t an unanimous view; most of the directors and shareholders either liked Iron Man or were indifferent to Tony’s extracurricular activities, comfortable to let him do whatever he wanted so long as he kept it separate from the company. But there were others: ones who didn’t hate Iron Man, per se, but weren’t exactly thrilled with his existence.

Keith Laurel, one of the few board members who had worked with both Howard and Obadiah, had been the most vocal today. “We’re a multi-national tech conglomerate on the forefront of innovation, and we’re picking street fights with a local crime family now? Do you have any idea how that looks?”

Tony had had to physically bite his tongue at that remark. For one thing, calling the Maggia a local crime family was tantamount to calling McDonald’s a family-run diner. And while he couldn’t figure out what he’d done recently to tick them off, he definitely didn’t go and pick that fight.

Pepper had stepped in then and pointed out that Iron Man’s activities didn’t necessarily reflect on Stark Industries because, technically, he didn’t work for them. She addressed it, then, in the very next breath, directed attention to the medical labs in South America and their recent breakthroughs in prosthetic limbs, but Laurel wasn’t having it.

He had fixed his gaze on Tony. “You’re not CEO anymore. That’s a fact. But you still own this company—the company your father left you. The things you do affect his legacy. What would he think?”

It wasn’t a new sentiment. If he had a dollar for every time someone played the “What would your father say?” card on him, his fortune would double. He had heard it so many times throughout his life, parroted and reiterated to the point that, honestly, he’d grown numb to it.

None of it was new: stock drops, unhappy board members, legacies upheld or profaned, attacks on Iron Man, attacks on Tony Stark—he was used to it.

He was used to it, but this time... it didn’t feel the same.

“You aren’t reckless,” Natasha said, cutting through the storm brewing in his head. “I didn’t marry a reckless man, and I swear I would never have a child with one.”

Tony scoffed before he could censor himself. “I didn’t get attacked for no reason. I must’ve done something, I just... I can’t figure it out.”

She brought her hand into his field of vision before touching his chin and coaxing him to turn his head and look at her; the intensity in her eyes was strangely calming. “I don’t know why Whiplash attacked you, but I know you didn’t invite it.”

When her gaze became too much, he closed his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. He bowed his head so that his forehead met hers. It hurt, twisting and leaning to the side like that, but he didn’t care. “I’ll fix this, I promise.”

Her hand moved to cup the back of his head, anchoring him. “We’ll fix it together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Socrates is Pepper’s bulldog, from the comics; she loves him but Happy would trade him for one stale corn chip.
> 
> This chapter is wanted for attempted murder—I swear, it tried to kill me all month long! But, I fought back, it’s written, I actually really like how it ended, and it’s posted so HA! Who’s laughing now, chapter-I-had-to-rewrite-50-times?


End file.
